


You're Gonna Carry That Weight

by Naldi_16



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Commonwealth, Dialogue Heavy, Fallout 4 - Freeform, Far Harbor, Ghosts, Lots of Character Death actually, Minor Character Death, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Warfare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-06
Updated: 2016-07-06
Packaged: 2018-07-21 20:59:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7404337
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Naldi_16/pseuds/Naldi_16
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has heard the ghost stories coming out of Far Harbor. No one is foolish enough to question the truth behind the legends, until the moment where they are faced with their biggest fears.</p>
<p>Intel from Brotherhood informants says that there's a haven for runaway synths on the island, and Recon Team Hades has been tasked with discovering the location and terminating all hostiles that get in their way. For repatriated Paladin Desmond O'Connor, there is nothing he hasn't seen or killed in the wasteland that has stopped him yet. With nothing left to lose, he boards the Vertibird bound for the northeast. Yet nothing could prepare him for the welcome they get on the island. Something is hiding behind the storms - behind the fog - a weight that no man can carry alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Gonna Carry That Weight

“This is Falcon Two-Five, come in Mother Bird, over.” 

“This is Mother Bird, what’s your status, Two-Five?” 

“Status: en route, ma’am. Steady bearing, north-northeast. We’ve run into a squall, visibility reduced to just a few feet.”

“What is the status of the beacon?”

“We’re following her signal in ma’am. ETA sixty minutes to objective.”

“Solid copy Two-Five. Stay safe out there.”

“No place safer…” Knight-Sergeant Sweeney mumbled, the pilot glaring through his visor as the heavy showers pelted against the windshield of the Vertibrid streaking fearlessly through the nighttime storm just offshore of the Commonwealth. Sweeny and his co-pilot, Knight Maxwell, struggled against the inclement weather to keep the bird flying smoothly. Powerful, swirling winds would thrust against the aircraft’s twin rotors now soaked in rain water. Clenched appendages would stick to the control sticks as uneasy glances fought the streaks of unending rainwater and flashes of lightning to keep an eye on the ever rising waves below. From this altitude, the Vertibird should be untouchable, but the sea was as unpredictable as unforgiving. 

 

Intel never stopped pouring into the Prydwen, especially when the Brotherhood were seemingly chasing ghosts with no home all along the coastline and into the deepest reaches of the Commonwealth. It was difficult to discern a credible lead from one that would send patrols running after ghost targets. Managing the Brotherhood’s resources on these wild goose chases were even worse, but when this assignment made its way on board, even Elder Maxson himself took notice to not only the source, but the nature of the report. 

Desmond O’Connor didn’t like the feeling of it from the beginning. Not just the ghost stories that came out of Far Harbor – they were no different than the myths of the Giants that lived across the river in Detroit, or the horror stories of the Enclave coming back to roost in the Mojave. Since the dawn of the wasteland, these tales have been told to scare those that were fearful enough to even consider their existence. Desmond had learned that he only needed to fear the silhouettes – both those that stood menacingly in the frame of his scope, and the ones that hid in the shadows, waiting for the sniper to finally join him after all these years. 

A synth refuge…so far away from the Commonwealth. Maxson was committed to its destruction. Perhaps it was the idea of no matter how far they ran, they could never outrun his iron fist. Maybe it was the informant’s trustworthiness that gave Recon Squad Hades the green light to pursue the objective. Maybe it was just being the tip of the spear, knowing fully what could be waiting for them at the Landing Zone and what kind of death and destruction will follow their report following their mission. Desmond never really got used to the killing – not after every ally that died in his arms, every mutant’s head that exploded in his scope, or every Legionnaire that he would have to slice into with his machete; it was just something he’d have to learn to live with in this wasteland.

 

“Recon Squad Hades,” As Sweeney’s voice boomed up into the earpieces of the members inside the bird, Desmond glanced up into the cabin to the other six that made up his new team. He wasn’t particularly fond of most of them, but he supposed they were better than being tied to Danse’s hip and trying to play hero in the ruins of Boston. “…this is your pilot speaking.” The craft swayed against the wind, Desmond mindlessly listening to the steady rapping of the metal frame as they passed through even thicker showers. “We have achieved optimal cruising altitude, but I remind you – electronic devices are not permitted during flight: that means you, Scribe Felix.” Sweeney didn’t even bother to look over his shoulder into the cabin as Felix brandished his middle finger towards the cockpit. “As always, we offer a hot meal of cram on board all flights. If you are part of our rewards club, you will be gaining frequent flier miles on this flight, and as always you have two exit doors at each end of the craft in any case Paladin Jimenez calls for an emergency exit mid-flight. Thank you for flying Air Sweeney – redefining ‘air superiority’ since ’67.”

“Shut the hell up, Sweeney” Knight Blandisi murmured jokingly through his comm unit, arm resting on the minigun that watched over the vast ocean rolling by the open door on the side of the bird. The rain wasn’t as bothersome in a full suit of power armor, unsurprisingly. Blandisi’s gaze was masked by the helmet that shone when the flash of lightning from the powerful coastal storm lit up the vastness of the night sky more than any mini-nuke could ever hope to. 

“Keep the radio waves clear, Knight-Sergeant,” Jimenez muttered over her corms. Desmond followed her figure as she stepped along the floor of the cabin, each step in her power armor heavier than the next. Laser rifle in one hand, her helmet in the other. 

“Roger that, ma’am. Thirty minutes to the LZ.” The sniper turned his glance from the Paladin to the two scribes in front of him. Felix was tasked with tracking the beacon and archiving the technology that they uncovered during their mission – especially any tech that pertained to the Institute, per Proctor Quinlan’s orders. The other hooded scribe was Bryan Fox – the newest member of the recon team. The sniper noticed the acne that dotted across his fresh expression, and eyes as big as china plates scouting the innards of the craft. Thumbs nervously hooked around the straps of his pack, laden with stimpaks and Med-X. It would’ve been useful to not have such a fresh faced recruit being called upon in case someone got hit on the way in, but seeing as Scribe Janovic stepped on a landmine while navigating the swamps last week and with the replacements being stretched thin, this was all Captain Kells could afford the team with. 

The sniper sighed away from the worrisome scribe and towards the Knights. Blandisi and Corrente worked well underneath Jimenez, and weren’t as hard-headed and overall a pain in the ass as much as Rhys was in squad Gladius. Though Desmond disliked how heavy this unit relied on their suits of power armor – preferring to leave his own suit on the Prydwen – they at least knew what it took to stay alive. He wouldn’t have to babysit them like he had to do for Keane or Haylen. The least amount of names he’d have to fill in the after-action report, the better. Nothing else mattered. 

 

“P-Paladin O’Connor, sir?” Fox’s stammering voice filled with everything from panic to nausea barely broke through the sound of the twin engines and the thundering storm outside. It was enough, however, to gain the attention of the sniper; his chin turned lazily towards the boy nearly shaking in his seat as he looked over the Paladin before him. Desmond, for better or worse, was a sort of celebrity upon the Prydwen – a survivor of a damned chapter in the Midwest that tore itself open in civil war. Desmond despised the notion; some of these younger recruits actually looked up to him for some of the shit he had done. The older ones knew better, quietly mumbling “heretic” under their breaths as he passed through the mess hall or through the airport. Fox could still see the pain in the cold expression of the sniper, swallowing his fear to speak to Desmond.

“Are the stories about the island true, sir?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Desmond plainly responded with little regard for the Scribe’s nerves. “I’ve never been there.”

“We’ll be okay, right sir?” Desmond paused for a moment as the boy smiled gently, as if he were half expecting Desmond to do the same, to tell him that everything was going to be alright and when they came home after making peace with everyone and having a big parade, they would be able to stuff their faces with Fancy Lad Snack Cakes and dance with all of the ladies at the airport. Desmond’s expression looked to squeeze with disgust, brows furrowing at the boy’s question. 

“We’re heading for a combat zone, scribe.” The sniper spat out. “Kells wouldn’t assign a medic to this unit if he wasn’t expecting a number of casualties. It’s up to you to decide if we’re going to be okay or not,”

“B-but sir,”

“But what? That’s the reality of this, Fox. You do your job, or you die.”

“But I’ve never been in combat before, sir.”

“No shit, Shirley. So pull your diaper up and ready your laser pistol. You get no second chance to save a life when you’re knee deep in the shit.” 

 

“O’Connor!” Jimenez shrieked, followed by another stomp of her power armor that separated the boy from Desmond’s gaze. The sniper, with irises half covered by disinterested lids, slowly tilted his chin up towards the helmetless Paladin as she turned over towards the boy. “Just remember everything that Knight Cade taught you, okay? You’ll bring us home safe when it’s all over.”

“Yeah…” Fox, dejected, folded his arms into his knees and lowered his gaze towards the floor as Jimenez turned to berate the other Paladin on this expedition. 

“What’s the matter with you?” 

“This is war, Paladin. The battlefield isn’t all sunshine and rainbows that the simulations and tales of glory tell it out to be. When I’m lying on that island with my guts in my hand, I don’t want some boy still wet behind the ears trying to stitch me up.”

“Well calling him Shirley isn’t going to help him, Paladin.” The two traded the title to remind one another that, while Desmond had no intention of leading the team, they shared a rank among the others. One took no direction from the other if they chose otherwise. If he could, Desmond would prefer to walk the wastelands alone – these Paladins’ heads were filled with delusions of glory on the battlefield when they were to achieve their inevitable victory over the Institute. No one ever expected their body to be the one to fill the bag. Some didn’t care – those were the scary ones. Desmond still wasn’t sure which one Jimenez was. “You know, for once, I’d like for you to at least act that you were a part of this team.” 

“My rifle is keeping you and your Knights alive; sometimes even a ‘thank you’ wouldn’t hurt, you know?” Desmond’s interest went to checking the scoped weapon. Appendages pulling the bolt back to check within the chamber. 

“It takes more than just killing mutants and synths to be part of a team, O’Connor. It takes sacrifice, dedication, and passion. It’s understanding the cause that you’re all fighting for, and understanding that you’re fighting for each other, for a common faith. You can’t understand that if you’re trying to distance yourself from everyone.” 

“You sound like Paladin Danse.”

“Am I supposed to take that as an insult?”

“When I was in Detroit, I had a dozen soldiers that sounded just like him. They had their hearts filled with the glory of what our chapter was doing, their eyes blinded by the worthy cause that they fought for. Funny…they all ended up in the same ditch in the ground.” Digits pulling the magazine from the rifle, irises checking the contents inside for dirt before loading the piece back into the weapon. His gaze finally caught the brunette female as the rifle lay in his palms. “What is the price you’re willing to pay for glory, Jimenez? When they stuff your corpse into a body bag and rip the tags from your neck, no one will care about what you fight for. Your faith won’t help you when death comes for you and the soldiers under you – the only thing that will keep you alive is your weapon. You can’t understand that if your corpse is rotting into a body bag, same as the rest of them.” Jimenez had to suppress a snarl – it was no wonder they called him a heretic behind his back (and some to his face). 

“If that’s the case, O’Connor, then why are you here?” An audible scoff expelled from Desmond’s lips as he forced the bolt back into place after noting the cleanliness of the chamber. Locked and ready to fire.

“Why are any of us here? My answer is just as good as yours, Maria.”

 

As Jimenez turned to leave her Paladin counterpart to be in his own corner of the Vertibird, there was a call of static over the comm unit that Sweeney attempted to intercept. 

“******Five, come in, ov-******”

“Mother Bird, this is Two-Five, say again your last, over.” Sweeney glanced worriedly over towards Maxwell, who focused on the path ahead laden in a stormy darkness. Fog began to flood into the view, further obstructing visibility amidst the swirling wind, pouring rain, and the thunderous calls from the heavens that threw the Vertibird into violent turbulence all around the caress of the squall. 

“Storm’s not clearing up,” Maxwell warned. “I’m going to gain some altitude; I don’t like how close we’re getting to those waves.”

“Keep our speed down – the last thing we need is to get caught in one of those gusts and get blown miles off course. We’re reaching bingo fuel as is just getting to the damn island.” 

“Cover of weather and darkness – a perfect entry, huh?” Sweeney chuckled to Maxwell’s facetiousness, but would grow more worried when the Prydwen would remain silent through the static on the other end of the comms. 

“Repeat – Mother Bird, say again your last, over.” There was a pause and a flash of lightning that would further the static. Irises shifted across the windshield soaked of rainwater, anxiously waiting for a response.

“****** Maxson orde*************** out immediate**************** ker hill, please resp*******” Sweeney and Maxwell exchanged glances through the turbulence, and their expressions painted the same worry that the soldiers in the cabin expressed of their adventure into the northeast. Sweeney’s digit extended towards the communications, severing the connection with the Prydwen with the flick of a switch and keeping their comms set only to ‘short range.’

“Jimenez, we’re out of range from Mother Bird. We’re on our own now; ETA to the LZ, ten minutes.”

“Roger that Two-Five.” Jimenez nodded towards the other members of the recon team. “Time to get tactical, Hades! You heard the man, ten minutes till drop! Load up!”

Laser rifles whirring, indicating their safeties being turned off. Chains of 5mm rounds being loaded into their respective miniguns. Helmets locked into place onto their suits of armor. Desmond sat with his rifle, anticipating the nature of the drop zone. There could be nothing beneath them for miles, or they could be dropped into a hostile nest of activity, with casualties as soon as they hit the ground. The Vertibird’s guns blazing as soon as bodies hit the dirt, screaming out in agony. It never got any easier.

Just something to learn to live with. Desmond repeated this to himself every time his index finger flipped off the safety to his precision rifle. 

 

“You sound like you woke up on the right side of the bed,” Knight Captain Helena Dusk took her seat beside Desmond, sporting her own precision rifle in her palms as a grin expanded across her tanned expression. The dark irises of the brunette turned toward the second half of Recon Team Hades’ sniper team. “Mouthing off to Jimenez again?” 

“Someone has to,” Desmond grumbled, his appendages searching for the auto pistol strapped to his hip. “Putting on that suit of armor doesn’t make you immortal.”

“Yeah yeah,” The spotter rolled her eyes away from the shooter. “And neither does your rifle.” 

“What’s your point?” The sniper was impatient as digits grasped onto the sidearm’s slide, releasing to load the next round into place. 

“We get it. You’ve seen the shit and everything that comes with it.” Dusk’s gaze felt soft, her tone felt almost as if they understood what Desmond had gone through to be in this Vertibird on this night. “You’re not as tough as you think you are.” 

“You actually believe that?”

“Oh please,” Dusk tried her best, but couldn’t hold back the giggling expression for too long. “You? You’re too easy. You try and put on that tough guy mask, but I can see it.”

“See what?” Desmond questioned, trying to hide his own smile as he examined the magazine for his sidearm. The extended mag helped with the lack of stopping power in the auto pistol; he needed to make sure every last cartridge was clean. 

“You’re just goading me with your fake ignorance, aren’t you?” Dusk asked through another giggle. “You have something to prove. If you didn’t care, you wouldn’t be on this bird with the rest of us.”

“I’m on this bird because you are my spotter.” Desmond tried to respond in a flat tone. “I follow your eyes from one corner of this shithole to the next.”

“Is that what you tell yourself?” Dusk curiously tilted her head towards the shooter of the pair. “C’mon Des. I can see right through you. You want to help Fox as much as you want to believe that you don’t. You want us all to come home. Jimenez, Felix, your old pal Captain Dusk…” Desmond twisted his head over towards his spotter. “You’ve seen enough. It’s time you’ve left the trigger pulls to the rest of us.” Her voice began to fall shallow, soft. Her digits extended to his shoulder, because damn him and everything he stood for trying to isolate himself. “You know, just say the word, and this will all be over…forever.” Her irises looked over his expression, as if he yearned to connect with just one human before he succumbed to this useless warfare that he threw himself into. How she wished so badly she could pull him out of this craft and away from all of this. All he had to do was say yes. 

“I…” Desmond lost himself in her gaze for just a split second. He remembered everything that kept him tied to the Mojave – the hooded Scribe that waited for a dead man to return beneath the glowing lights of Vegas. He wondered if the Bear or the Bull had already returned. He wondered if anyone had made it out.

He wondered if she had found that place by Lake Mead…that little home that she dreamed about, where the wars were hundreds of miles away. He could see Veronica’s face bathing in that Mojave sun, though even now it didn’t feel so unforgiving. He saw her tender smile, her arms stretching out to catch as much light as they could before the sun disappeared behind the shadow of the West. Her eyes - looking for the truth in a world veiled in sand and steel, looking for purpose. She had found it in him…and he denied it to her. 

Was she still there? At the lake’s shore, she said she’d wait for him….forever.

Forever.

 

_Don’t make a girl a promise…if you know you can’t keep it…_

 

“You remind me of a friend I knew,” Desmond commented shallowly as the lights in the cabin began to shine red – an indicator from Sweeney that they were nearing their drop zone. “Back in the Mojave.”

“Leave it to a hardened Brotherhood Paladin to keep the details vague” Dusk rolled her eyes towards her own rifle, palms reaching out to check the weapon as Desmond stared at the red light that sat over Fox’s head. The light shook with the bird through the unrelenting winds outside that continued to howl against the hull of the craft. “Who was this person that I am so revered to?”

“She was a scribe.” Desmond tried to keep his answers plain to Dusk’s prying. “A procurement specialist, to be exact.”

“Hey, soldier boy, I don’t mean like their job. I mean what made them who they were. Was she your sister in arms? A wise old teacher? A lost love? A-“

“Just a friend.” Desmond snapped back, his rifle huddled to his frame as he glanced towards the cockpit, witnessing a heated discussion between pilot and co-pilot but unable to decipher the content of their conversation. “Her name was Veronica.” Dusk paused, noting the past tense that he used following his quick response regarding a possible romantic connection. She swallowed her next comment, eyes glancing nervously over to her shooter. This was the last thing she wanted to bring up right before dropping into a combat zone. 

Desmond didn’t know what else to say. He left Veronica behind in the sands of the Mojave – he was sure Dusk could immediately see the regret in his irises, frozen on her gaze as if he wished he could scream out for some sort of help, but knowing how pointless such an endeavor would take. She knew nothing of the desert, nothing of the Legion’s champion that he was forced to slay. Nothing would make sense to Dusk, no matter how badly his palm just wanted to take her hand and confess his sins. She might not understand, but she’d be the only one who gave a shit about the names that Desmond had to lay into the dirt.

“Des, I-“

“We’re almost at the LZ. I’ll tell you more when we’re on our way home.” 

“What if we don’t make it home?”

“That’s not something you should worry about right now. Keep your focus, Dusk.”

“I’ll be watching over you, Des.”

 

Lightning streaked just beyond the nose of the Vertibird, forcing both Sweeney and Maxwell to shield their eyes before the massive crack of thunder that shook the craft down to its hull. Knight Corrente nervously held on to the railing on the open door, his helmet scanning the rough waves below that were just for a moment illuminated by the intense flashes of the storm. Sweeney had only seen such violent lightning coming out of the rad storms near the Glowing Sea, but they were miles and miles from that desolation. He could feel Maxwell’s nerves – the boy was always prone to the superstitious, and there were more than enough tales coming off the island to keep him busy. Sweeney instead decided to focus on what he could physically see – the gauges in front of him that began to sway as their craft’s nose plunged in the wind.

“Dammit, keep us level!” Maxwell warned.

“Worry about your own job!” A frustrated Sweeney quickly replied. “We should be approaching the island soon, see to it that we arrive safely and on time. If we hit bingo before we get to the shore, I’m turning this bird around.”

“Maxson labeled this a priority mission, sir. We can’t turn around without-“

“We’re no good to the Elder dead, Maxwell. I’m not fighting this nor getting these men and women killed over this storm. The synths will be there when the clouds pass.” Sweeney began to lower the accelerator, slowing the craft down in preparation for a landing. Gloved digits tensed against the throttle as nervous irises scanned the darkness, trying to find something through the pouring rain droplets streaking over his vision. Teeth bit onto his lip as he glanced back and forth, forth and back. 

“Fog is too deep,” Sweeney observed. “I can’t see shit.” 

“Objective is just a few kilometers out, we should be reaching the island’s shoreline by-“

A timely bolt of lightning illuminated the sea beneath the Vertibird. The waves rose and fell as if the hands of the gods themselves threw them around in their own fury. Reality, as Desmond had learned, was far more frightening than any tale about any deity that failed to show itself in the wasteland. The wave in front of the Vertibird was capped in a white wall of rushing water thrown up by the storm. What the swell hid beneath its wall of water was much more sinister. The carapace of what lay beneath that rose from the wave, towering as the flash bounced off its scaly torso directly in the path of Sweeney’s aircraft, was far scarier than any storm the pilot had flown through. The Mirelurk Queen, a massive monster that lived on the edge of the sea – on the edge of fiction – rose as if it were just an innocent, curious being investigating the buzzing that neared its nest. Maxwell could feel his heart freeze and shrivel in his chest as his mouth hung agape at the sheer size of the beast. Its claw itself was almost the size of the bird – and they were rapidly approaching the creature.

“Oh shit!” Sweeney exclaimed as he made for the control stick, shoving it towards the right in an effort to evade a collision. “Hang on!” He screeched into the comms, the hard right bank throwing every Brotherhood disciple onto their side. Desmond cold tell that this was no mere turbulence, but that wasn’t his concern as he was thrown into Dusk’s lap by the quick maneuver. The sniper grumbled as he tried to pull himself from his spotter’s thigh, ready to give the cockpit a piece of his mind. It wasn’t until he felt the entire hull shake and the screech of metal bending against a tough exoskeleton that he realized the awful reality of what was occurring just outside their doors. 

The bright fireball and the concussion that followed signaled the explosion of what used to be the Vertibird’s left engine as it collided with the colossal monster. From Dusk’s lap to the floor of the Vertibird’s cabin Desmond’s frame was ragdolled from the force of the collision, his temple slamming into the floor. His vision blurred from the impact, he watched as Blandisi had just about no chance to recover; his suit of armor was almost immediately flung through the air without as much as a cry for help before he disappeared like a stone being thrown into a puddle. Jimenez shortly followed, the weight of her bulky suit shooting her out of the Vertibird’s door like a Fat Man shooting a mini nuke. Desmond’s body tumbled violently through the cabin towards the same door as alarms blared all throughout the craft. Felix and Fox were helplessly strapped into their seats as Corrente hoped that the door’s rail could withstand his grasp. 

The left rotor burned furiously as the bird circled towards the raging sea. The nose of the craft dipped and rose as the right rotor attempted to hold the craft in the air for as long as possible, but Sweeney quickly realized through gritted teeth that it was no use. Alarms from the gauges whirring and spinning screamed into his ears, and he made sure to at least get one last message out, even if it never made it out of the storm’s clouds.

“Mother Bird, Two-Five is going down! Repeat, Two-Five is going down! We’ve been hit!” 

Maxwell tried to work amidst the violent twisting of the craft as it cycloned towards the ocean to cut the fuel line and somehow put the fire out to the engine – anything to keep them airborne. The Vertibird continued its freefall, no matter what these men could possibly hope for. Their prayers went unanswered as the craft descended into the grasps of the unknown.

Desmond’s digits tried to gain some sort of traction, grab onto something as he felt his body being dragged towards the open door. Corrente was already halfway out on his own right, and the scribes could only watch as they were crushed by the G forces onto their bodies locked into place. At first he felt his boots lose the floor and hang out the door – then his knees. He was almost at his waist when he felt a tug at his elbow. Dark, helpless irises glanced up to find his savior – Helena Dusk – planting her feet on either side of the door and trying her best to pull her shooter back into the craft. The sniper could feel his tendons beginning to tear as his legs were pulled one way into the depths of every hell he every feared, while his torso tried to hold on to the one thing he could still believe in.

The rainwater made his grasp slippery. Their union didn’t last long as he felt her sleeve and every last one of her appendages slip away from him. 

The weightlessness of free fall. The sight of watching your companion watch you die. She would be okay, Desmond lied to himself as he plunged towards the ocean. Her eyes - she looked like Veronica when he decided to walk away from her and step to the East for the challenge that he was so certain would bring him into the embrace of the ghosts. Helpless lips wanting to call out for his name in the chaos. Doubting eyes that wanted to jump into the waves after him. A torn heart…

Maybe this was what death felt like.

 

Desmond’s eyes shut as the waves consumed him. Beneath the torrent his body was helpless. To the sea he was given, its chilling embrace nearly freezing the sniper upon his violent entry. Spinning through the violent current, water rushed into Desmond’s lungs through any and every possible point. The bubbles that rose from nose and mouth were the last signal of a man who had long overstayed his welcome on this realm. Cold. Alone. Helpless. Death. It had to come to an end eventually. It may as well happen in the embrace of the endless ocean; the expanse that concealed the edge of the world behind its horizon. 

The muffled sound of several massive concussions on the surface followed by the ripples in the water that signaled the aircraft’s collision with the sea. In the darkness, Desmond could see the fireball that used to be his squad’s transport. Arms remained laid out to his side, body floating in the depths of the dark sea that he had given himself up to. There was no use even attempting a rescue. 

The same torrent that had swallowed the sniper began to pick him up towards the surface – either that or some sort of hellish pull into the grasp of this realm of Purgatory that Desmond seemed to be cursed with. He wasn’t ready for the sudden rush to pull him up and then come crashing down. Current rushing the ragdolled frame through the sea’s fingertips, pushing him towards the light like a Bloodbug to the fire. Just as soon as Desmond had given up, the water fell beneath his face and he was able to choke on a breath of air. It was anything but pleasant – the sky had already begun to fill with the smoke from Sweeney’s wreckage, burning furiously on the surface as mangled pieces of steel jutted out from the water. Beneath flailing boots Desmond could feel the rocky bottom of the sea. As his body forced the water in his lungs away – just enough to feel some form of life, his eyes tried to collect his bearings as the waves started to hammer at the back of his head. 

The wreck of the craft would act as his torch. Desmond could smell the gasoline that hung on the top of the sea and burned with the fury of Hades. The tongues of flame lashed out into the sky, and not even the downpour from the storm could quell its wrath. Struggling through water up to his collar, Desmond attempted to wade forward. The bright tongues of orange flame lit the faint shadow of a coastline just ahead. Sandy beach and a treeline masked in fog just beneath the watchful eyes of an old white house perched on a cliff that watched the horror unfold behind it – all flickering with a hue of fiery damnation that represented the wreck’s blaze. For some reason, Desmond crawled forward through the low hanging fog, against the waves that rushed towards the coastline and crashed against the rocky edge of the cliffs beside the beaches, against the rain that pelted at his scalp relentlessly, against the lightning that mocked him with each flash – against every instinct that told him to turn back into the sea.

There was nothing for him on this island. It was as if there were a voice, lost in the fog, that called out to him, promising him salvation in the land of sinners. That voice so familiar that Desmond could almost see the face of its origin pulling him out of the water, out of the darkness. Surely, he would find his end in the fog. He – the master of his own fate – would follow their call. His boots would carry him into this Purgatory. 

 

A rushing shadow pierced the surface of the water, followed by an audible gasp for air. Flailing arms reached for whatever they could slap against in order to keep a heavy frame afloat. The figure’s head barely poked over the waves, legs beneath the darkness kicking furiously through the struggle. It was only until Desmond’s heavy palm grasped at the silhouette’s collar that the frantic thrashing stopped and the frightened expression of Bryan Fox turned towards his savior. 

“P-P-P-P,” His lip quivered as Desmond began to pull the boy closer to the shore. 

“Feet on the deck, soldier.” Desmond ordered as he slowed his wade in an effort to aid the scribe for reasons that evaded him. “Move, or you’ll freeze to death here.” Slowly, Fox’s appendages reached out to grasp onto Desmond’s sleeve. His trembling torso slowly waded forward, his boots finding the rocky floor of the ocean. Desmond glanced over at the young boy, whose profile must’ve been incinerated when the bird hit the water. Smoldering pieces of face still remained just below his eye, skin and flesh peeling back to reveal a cindered cheekbone flanked by burned tissue. The wound nearly shone amidst the inferno burning on the water. Out of his mouth blood began to fall down his chin – the liquid appearing black against the visage of the storm and hellfire. Raspy breaths that sounded more like wheezing followed each step that the young scribe took, his chin hanging down as if he barely maintained consciousness. This was everything that the boy had feared.

Desmond couldn’t ever remember such innocence in the wasteland. He learned from youth that there was no place for it in the trenches or in the ruins. Yet here he was – dragging the walking corpse through the caress of the merciless sea onto an island where certain death awaited them both. Perhaps it was the idea of salvaging the supplies in his rucksack that kept his grasp on the boy as tight as it was. He could use the stimpaks when he made it ashore and figured out where the fuck they had fallen, and how to make it home. 

Home. Desmond hadn’t given the idea much thought, no matter how casually he threw the thought around. The image of the house on the cliff, its paint peeling off from countless years exposed to radiation, dominated his vision much more so than the ghoulish-looking scribe that he dragged through the current. The water level had fallen down to their waist, both frames soaked in both the salt water of the ocean and the iron-tasting rainwater soaked in radiation of centuries gone by. Fox tugged onto Desmond’s sleeve subtly as his chin turned towards his left.

“P-Paladin,” Finally he was able to spit out a feeble word through blood pooling at the end of his tongue.

“Stop trying to talk,” Desmond advised as he tried to keep balance with the boy’s falling pace. “Save your energy. Get to the shore.”

“S-something…something’s in…”

“Shut up.”

“My foot…it hit…m-my…”

A more vicious tug at his sleeve as the boy fell into the water, nearly pulling the sniper under the waves with him. Lightning furiously flashed above as the silhouette was revealed underneath the waves. 

“Sir!” The Scribe shrieked. “H-help me! My leg!” The creature’s claw had latched onto Fox’s tibia, and even under the water Desmond could begin to hear the bones begin to crack beneath its vicegrip. “Ahhhh!!!!”

“Hold still!” Desmond tried to call out as the boy’s pull dragged him under the waves, fighting to surface in order to try and get a good shot at the beast. Palm reached down to his hip – the auto pistol still remaining in his holster despite the chaos of his descent and reemergence. Palm fixing around the comfort grip, Desmond retracted the weapon to be directed at the beast beneath. One palm still attempting to hold the scribe still, the sniper fought to get a good shot in the heavy waves and the chaotic splashing caused on by Fox’s thrashing. When the opportunity presented itself, he squeezed the trigger.

Nothing. Not even a click. The weapon was soaked – there was no chance in hell for it. The boy’s frantic screaming and tugging at Desmond’s sleeve further threw him into the waves. Fox cried out underneath thunder claps as the foreign claw pierced flesh, the water beginning to flood with the scribe’s blood even further, and most certainly drawing the attention of other creatures in the area.

“Ahhhhh!!” Fox nearly wept amidst the pain of his femoral artery being severed. Desmond tried to push away, but the boy was panicking. He had nothing else but to hold on to the sniper and hope to whatever God he cried out to could possibly save him. Desmond only had one opportunity, or more of them would come for him. 

“Sir! Help! Oh God he-“ His shout was cut short as he felt the blade of the sniper pierce his chest. The breath of the boy froze in his throat as the blade pierced his breast, past the cracking of bones and into the soft tissue of his heart. Desmond tightened the grip on the combat knife to make sure that it passed completely into the boy, his ears twitching as the final breath of life exhaled from the scribe. He watched the boy’s twisted face grow pale, silent. His frame sat motionless for a moment, so that Desmond could gaze into those cold, dead eyes of Scribe Bryan Fox for just a split second before whatever beast of this island dragged the fresh corpse away. The lifeless body disappeared beneath the waves, joining the low, hungry growl of whatever shadow had stalked him all this way for a fresh meal. The sniper tried to stand amongst the waves, retreat closer to the shore and to a safer perch, but the eyes of the boy – caught in unending agony for the last minutes of his life – served as a silent testament to the sniper’s work. To some, it was murder. To Desmond, it was just another kill.

 

Away from the sea and towards the island. Towards the face of the decaying white house that presided over him and his sins while he waded through the sea to reach safety, the water now at his knees. It wasn’t guilt that weighed down Desmond’s steps as another shadow appeared through the fog, coughing violently as it hunched over in agony, salt water caught in its lungs. The sniper glanced over his shoulder at the blaze that continued to burn. Sweeney and Maxwell were surely killed on impact. Jimenez, Blandisi, and Corrente must be at the bottom of the sea by now. Fox was now nothing more than fish food. Two remained unaccounted for, though Desmond recognized the silhouette as he neared the sandy beach, his pace beginning to quicken as he observed Knight-Captain Helena Dusk doubled over on the sandy beach. The sniper immediately dropped to a knee at her side as his spotter struggled for a breath. 

“Easy now,” Desmond tried to talk her through her own resurfacing, seeing that she probably had taken in far too much salt water in her lungs. Though as he placed a palm on her shoulder to twist her body around, his eyes fell upon her midsection – a chunk of metal impaled into her stomach as a result of the impact. Desmond’s jaw dropped, his sullen expression falling down onto Helena’s pained profile. He didn’t even want to acknowledge the loss of blood from her wound. His arm moved to her opposite shoulder, holding up the frame of his spotter so that perhaps by sitting up she could breathe a little easier.

“Boy, aren’t I lucky to see you,” Desmond found it impossible how she still managed to crack a smirk in this situation. 

“Just hang on,” The sniper tried to dismiss, his palm rising as if he were to grab the steel fragment and pull it from her torso. If she had any chance, he’d have to stop the bleeding. “Just hang on God dammi-“ Dusk made a silent protest by placing her own hand into Desmond’s waiting palm, her appendages lacing into his as her smirk burned brighter than the wreckage that lit their night. 

“We both know what’s going to happen next,” Her voice was weak, and as Desmond looked on in disbelief, Dusk continued to meet her own death with a smile. Desmond gave a silent nod, unable really to deny her otherwise. Perhaps he knew he couldn’t save her. Perhaps he knew that he’d just lose her even quicker if he tried. As much as he wanted to save Helena, he instead resided in the last piece of innocence that he knew. In her eyes, sparkling against the burning sea, he saw the last glimmers of hope in this wasteland.

“I’m sorry,” Desmond whispered, his grasp fragile as she rested in his arms. 

“Desmond,” A pained cough trying to force the blood out of her lungs. “We both knew the risks when we signed up for the tour.” 

She continued to smile – the mystery evaded the sniper better than any mutant possibly could. He instead remained in paralyzed silence. 

“…I’m glad I got to see the world with you.” Her hand squeezed Desmond’s softly, the sniper’s gaze falling to where their fingers laced one another.

“I wish I could see the world through your eyes.”

“The world isn’t as black and white as you see it, Desmond O’Connor.” Her head tucked itself into Desmond’s torso so that she could hear the sniper’s heartbeat. No matter how cold he tried to act, she loved just how warm he felt on his chest. Desmond lowered his chin on the top of her scalp, his lids falling over his eyes as he tightened his grasp onto the female.

“Don’t…”

“I’ll be watching over you, Des.” 

 

Helena Dusk fell limp into his grasp. Her breathing was easy, and when it stopped, it was as If the storm had fallen completely silent. The lightning hovered over the distance, the gales falling into a light breeze, the pouring showers reduced to a gentle drizzle…Desmond O’Connor, once more cursed to walk the wastes alone. 

The old house in the fog would watch over the sniper’s sorrow as he carried the body of his spotter up the hill. A single tree sat in the yard, softly swaying in the passing winds that saw the storm past the far reaches of the island. The dense haze that surrounded the sniper choked at his vision; Desmond mindlessly stepping through the fog to reach the walls of the Cliffside structure. The winds picked up the whispers from those that found their residence deep within the mist’s embrace. Ghosts in the fog…following the sniper through the purgatory that he was condemned to. Salvation or damnation – the key to his fate lay on the island. The secrets to finding the key laid in their whispers. With his hands, he would turn the key.

The weight of the ghosts weighing on his shoulders, Desmond O’Connor collapsed into the grass. The shadows of the house watched his descent with pity. A warrior of steel – broken by the very warfare he had committed himself to. The human spirit broken, and only the fog to fill in the void. A weight too large for any man to carry alone.


End file.
